Silver - Remastered
by theendofanera
Summary: Rissa seems to the brothers like the sort of girl who barely has the skill set to kill mosquitoes, let alone monsters. Bobby says otherwise, and the Winchesters trust him enough not to question him. Dean takes an immediate dislike to Rissa, but they are stuck with her when the Impala breaks down. The trio must solve an unusual case involving a rash of terrible luck in a small town.


***cracks knuckles* alrighty. Here we go. I'm not caught up in Supernatural, I'm somewhere in the middle of season ten, but the characters and the universe is so much fun to write with! I hope you enjoy, I spent about a million years editing just this first chapter alone and it's like 2am but it was honestly so worth it. I haven't felt so motivated to write in a long time! Anyway, please leave a review to let me know what you thought! Constructive criticism is encouraged! Hell, even flames are encouraged. Roast me.**

 **-elliott xoxo**

As he faded into semi-consciousness, the muffled sound of modern rock music reached his ears and Dean sat bolt upright.

Trembling fingers shot up to his forehead, which stung, and met the rough surface of a gauze bandage. He grunted at a sharp pain, propping himself up on the bed on his elbows. He felt horribly dizzy, somewhere between drunk hungover. Both were feelings he was accustomed to, due to his alcoholic tendencies, but nevertheless he had to take a moment to orient himself before he blinked open his eyes, which swam for a moment before focusing. His head throbbed violently, heartbeat in his ears, but he slipped his feet out from under the covers and swung his legs over the side of the bed with some effort. He was hunched over, elbows on his knees, as he first began to regard his surroundings.

The room was dimly lit by a single nightlight attached to an outlet in the corner, but as his eyes began to adjust to the darkness he could make out that it was cluttered, the wooden floor littered with torn notebook pages and novels. He noticed the vague outline of what he thought could be a shotgun resting on the side of the headboard of the small bed, and he reached a slightly trembling hand down to grasp it. To his satisfaction, it was, indeed, a shotgun. As he lifted it up, tracing the cold metal with his fingers, he pushed himself to his feet. What appeared to be dried blood stained a shirt that lay crumpled in a discarded heap in the corner, and he frowned, gaze sliding away from it and across the atrocious floral wallpaper before landing on the door.

He made his way cautiously over to it, hyperaware of the creak of the floorboards under his bare feet with each step. He narrowly avoided a stack of papers and nearly slipped on an open novel, but somehow he managed to reach the door.

He placed a hand on the silver doorknob, preparing to knock the door down if necessary. To his surprise, it swung open easily, and the music he had heard earlier flooded into the room, causing his already-aching head to throb in protest. He cursed under his breath as stumbled over yet another a pile of books, losing his patience and scattering them with a well-aimed kick.

He found himself in a hallway, a short one, with a door at the other end. It was slightly ajar, and he raised the gun as someone walked past it, blocking the thin stream of light for a second.

"Sammy?" He called warily, but his cracked, raspy voice was swallowed by the deafening music.

He took a deep breath, collecting himself before he burst through the door, pointing his gun at the first person he saw.

A young woman blinked back at him, a dirty plate in hand.

He looked her quickly up and down, evaluating whether she was friend or foe.

She was short and thin, and wore a crinkled black t-shirt and baggy pajama pants. She had pale skin, with a striking spatter of freckles on her prominent nose and flushed cheeks. Her soft brown eyes, bright and startled, studied his face, and her hair was wrapped in a towel on her head.

He jabbed the gun at her, opening his mouth to say something.

Before he could speak, she hastily snatched the top of the gun and swiveled it so it was pointing down at the tile floor. She easily twisted it from his shaky grasp, tossing it and letting it skid across the floor. "Morning!" She called loudly over the music that filled the room, offering him a broad smile before moving to place the plate in the sink.

Dean fixed his gaze on her, fumbling in the pocket of his jeans for a small silver knife, which he flipped open and pointed at her with shaky hands. "Where the hell am I?"

She dropped the plate absent-mindedly, throwing her hands up as if to surrender and fixing her wide eyes on the silver blade, sudden anxiety flaring in her eyes. The plate shattered on the floor, and she backed hastily up toward the counter to fumble at her stereo and turn the music down, never once taking her eyes off the blade that gleamed in his hand.

Sam's voice reached Dean from where he sat at a table to Dean's left. "Woah, Dean, take it easy," Dean glanced in his brother's direction, keeping the knife trained on the girl.

"Take it easy?" He snapped. "I'd like to know where the hell I am and who the hell _she_ is before I 'take it easy',"

"Alright, then. You could have just asked, there's no need for... _that_ ," she replied, gesturing broadly to the knife and the gun. "I'm Rissa. This is my apartment," she explained hastily. "Now put the knife away? Please?"

He glared, lowering the blade slowly.

She gave him a grateful half smile and then turned to fetch some paper towel before kneeling down to scoop the shattered remnants of the plate into a bag.

"Sammy, what happened?" He asked, walking over to his brother and slumping down into the seat across from him. Sam sat back down, eyes on his laptop.

"Werewolves," Sam stated simply. "But not the usual type, it seems," he said, looking up from the screen. "It's not full moon. Not even CLOSE," he said with a frown.

Dean slumped into the chair opposite his brother, watching Rissa as she turned her music off, frantically trying to get all the shards in the bag. She jolted back as one cut her. "Shit," she snapped, sticking her bleeding finger in her mouth and carrying the bag one-handedly over to the trash can.

Dean blinked. "That's not what I meant, Sam. How did we end up _here_? What the hell happened?" He asked, voice low and gaze fixed pointedly on Rissa, who had stumbled backwards over her own kitchen stool and was attempting unsuccessfully to push herself back to her feet with only the hand that wasn't presently bloodied.

"You got hurt, Dean. It was pretty bad."

"But who is SHE?" He asked. Rissa was either out of earshot or not paying any attention, as she didn't seem to acknowledge the conversation, having stumbled to a standing position and began singing along out of tune with her music and running cool water over her finger.

"A hunter. And a damn good one, according to Bobby," Sam said, but he glanced doubtfully at the girl as she turned around in her sock feet and slipped on the tile, barely keeping her balance by clutching the counter. Dean raised his eyebrows and looked doubtfully at Sam, who shrugged. "I trust Bobby's judgement," he said unconvincingly.

She looked over at the Winchesters, shooting them a bright smile, and adjusted herself back into a stable standing position. "Food's in the fridge. Help yourselves," she called to them before hurrying into the bathroom, cradling her bleeding hand.

Dean rubbed his eyes getting to his feet and swinging the refrigerator door open. He frowned. It was fairly sparse, containing only canned Pepsi, some slices of cheddar cheese, and foam takeout boxes with illegible labels scrawled on them in sharpie. He took a Pepsi and walked back toward his brother. "No beer," he commented, irritation lacing his tone as he slid back into his seat and popped the top off of the Pepsi.

Sam didn't look up from the computer, but his brow furrowed slightly. "Looks like we have TWO cases," he muttered, half to himself.

Dean looked up from the pop, raising an eyebrow.

Sam turned the computer so Dean could see. He had several tabs open to obituary pages in the local newspaper. "Seven deaths," he said, leaning forward in his chair. "Not murders, not suicides, these people died of sheer clumsiness,"

Dean rolled his eyes. "If the rest of this damn town is anything like Rissa, I doubt anything out of the ordinary would have to cause that," He muttered, thinking that the short, clumsy girl couldn't possibly be the 'damn good hunter' Bobby had apparently directed Sam to.

Sam gave him a warning glare. "Seven deaths in two days?" He said, turning the laptop around do he was facing it again. "Dean. One of these guys was full on smoking a cigar while he put gasoline in his car."

Dean shrugged, taking a swig of the drink.

"Another somehow managed to get his tie stuck in an elevator door! It's at least worth checking it out." Sam said.

"Check what out?" Rissa stood at the exit to the bathroom, sporting a faded old hoodie that seemed to be from a local college and jeans that were ragged, but from the look of them it was not for the purpose of fashion but rather from overuse. She had unwrapped her hair from the towel and it fell around her collarbones, still not completely dry. It looked as though it had once been dyed a bright blue, but the color had faded and her short locks now looked slightly overbleached with just a vague blue tint. She smiled happily, completely oblivious to the way Dean eyed her distrustfully.

"Listen, sweetheart." Dean started out sarcastically, tone dripping with blatant irritation as he got to his feet. "Thanks for all the help, but I think we've got this one covered."

Sam swallowed, anxious gaze flicking from Dean to Rissa.

"Well, you aren't going anywhere without me!" She chirped, still not noticing the distaste for her that was evident in Dean's expression.

"And why's that?" Dean snapped.

"The car," she said casually, gesturing toward the window. "It got pretty beat up. Besides, I know my way around town way better than either of you do." she said insistently, but Dean had tuned her out the minute his car was mentioned. He brushed past her, looking out the window above the sink that provided a view of the parking lot. The Impala wasn't among the cars that were parked there, and Dean clenched his teeth.

"Where the hell is my Impala?" He said, hands balled into fists and knuckles white as he fought to keep his tone even.

"At the shop," she said, waving her hand dismissively. "We'll have to use my car." She frowned slightly, walking over to him. He turned to face her, but before he could say anything, she was on her tiptoes and she had one hand on the side of his forehead, and the other she was using to peel the bandage swiftly from his skin.

He let out a sharp gasp, clasping his hands to his forehead and taking a staggering step back. Shock kept his tongue tied and he turned to glance at Sam, who had his eyebrows raised as though somewhat unsure what to make of the situation. Her hands found his face once more, remaining on her toes and pulling his head down toward hers before he could protest

She swiped her gaze over his wound swiftly before he wrenched himself from her grasp. It was only a scrape, not too deep, but she frowned as he yanked away. "Dean, you were injured and it's important that your scrape is properly cared for," she explained, as though puzzled as to why he reacted so violently to her grabbing his face. "It's probably best to leave the bandage off for now anyway. Have to let the wound breathe, you know," she said, half to herself, discarding the bandage on the already-cluttered floor and heading for the door. "Come on! Now that we have a lead, we should get working on it as soon as possible!"

Dean squared his jaw, glaring at Sam before following her reluctantly.

She whirled around on the spot, holding up her hands and smacking one open palm to her forehead. "Oh! I almost forgot," she pushed past Dean, whose patience seemed to be shrinking more and more with each passing second, and disappeared down the hallway.

"Hey, Dean," Sam got to his feet and gripped his brother's arm as Dean stared, jaw set and the vein in his temple prominent, in the direction Rissa had gone. Worry laced Sam's tone and his volume was low, as though not to catch Rissa's ear. "You sure you feel up to a hunt?"

Dean shrugged Sam's arm off stubbornly. "I'll be fine," He insisted.

Sam let out a low sigh and shut his laptop before grabbing his coat from the peg by the door. Rissa reappeared, a large sweatshirt in hand. She tossed to Dean, who was clad in only his jeans and a thin white shirt. "This should fit you," she said with a friendly smile, sweeping past him and toward the door. Dean held up the sweatshirt and frowned. It appeared to be an incredibly tacky souvenir from a tourist shop. " _MY FRIEND WENT ALL THE WAY TO ORLANDO AND ALL THEY GOT ME WAS THIS LOUSY SWEATSHIRT!"_ it complained in cartoony bubble letters, complete with what appeared to be a grumpy yellow face at the bottom. He looked helplessly at Sam, making a face of exaggerated distress as Sam did his best to cover up a fit of laughter with fake coughing. Dean glowered and turned the truly atrocious garment inside out before slipping it on and then pulling his jacket on overtop. Rissa pulled on her coat as well, and jiggled the door with some difficulty before it scraped open. The brothers followed her lead, and she shoved the apparently sticky door closed with a slight struggle before locking it.

"Sam and I loaded the equipment in the back before I called the shop," She told Dean as she started down the hallway and toward the staircase. "It might be a bit much for my little old car, but we'll see," she said off-handedly with a laugh. Sam and Dean exchanged a nervous glance. As they exited the building and entered the parking lot, Dean's gaze swept the cars and he hoped to himself that hers wasn't too bad. She lead them to a dark red mini van, and they seemed relieved. It could have been much worse, Dean reasoned to himself as he opened the back, leaving Sam in the passenger seat.

"What model is this?" Dean asked, curiously looking around the car. He was surprised by how clean she had kept it, in contrast to her home.

She looked vaguely confused, glancing at his reflection in the rear-view mirror.

"What model car?" He elaborated.

She shrugged. "Dunno. It works, that's all I care." Dean looked disbelievingly at the girl. She started the engine and the CD player kicked on, somewhere halfway through an album neither brother recognized.

Sam jumped a little, startled by the sudden burst of music. "The first man's name was Wolfe," He called over the drum music that filled the car.

She fumbled with the volume controls. "Huh?"

"Wolfe, Kurt Wolfe," he said. "First victim."

She nodded thoughtfully before reaching over in front of Sam to pop open the glove compartment, pulling out a phone book. She dropped it in his lap. "Here, find me an address," she said, and then she grinned. "This is my first time going on a proper hunt with other hunters! This will be so much fun!" She insisted, and Dean gave her a dry smile before burying his aching head in his hands.

 **So there you go! Please leave a review, I am writing this to learn how to improve my writing style! Tell me what you liked, what you didn't like, and feel free to be perfectly candid! I won't be offended! Thank you so much for reading, I really appreciate it! 3**

 **-elliott**


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